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Wednesday, August 13, 2014

The Last Free Man: A Short Story

Someone was knocking on the door. He
was not surprised. He rose slowly, walked to the door, and opened it for the
men. He assumed they were federal agents. He stood in the doorway, calmly
looking at the men, but saying nothing.

The silence was uncomfortable for the agents. Their
leader cleared his throat and began, "Mr. Smith, we've been sent here to
help you."

"I did not request any help," Mr. Smith
replied. "Who sent you?" Mr. Smith already knew the answer, but he
wanted to make the men answer.

"Why, the people, of course. Your fellow citizens
are concerned that you are still living outside the collective."

Mr. Smith, of course, was fine. He needed no
collective. He grew his own food, had a well with fresh water, and had built a
fine house. He had once been the most brilliant engineer in his country. He was
still brilliant, but the collective had confiscated the factories and machinery
he had designed and maintained. He had retreated to his remote home to try to
live in peace. Other engineers had moved to the collective but, over time, had
lost their desire to innovate. Perhaps being surrounded by all those
"people's representatives" and federal agents did not inspire men to
put forth their best efforts.

Mr. Smith, after another long silence, responded to
the agents. "The citizens' concern is unwarranted. I am fine. Now, if that
is all, I'll say good night." He turned from the door, knowing the agents
would not leave.

"Mr. Smith," said the leader, "We came
to take you with us."

"Why?" said Smith. He knew the answer, but
wanted the satisfaction of hearing it spoken out loud.

"Well...we...need you, Mr. Smith," they
admitted.

"I see. All those drones in the collective and
not a one of them can keep your economy going? So you've come to drag me away
to save you all, after you've stolen everything I ever invented?" Smith
waited for their next move.

"We wouldn't exactly say that. You will come,
won't you? We didn't plan to use force."

"Of course you didn't," said Smith,
"but I can't help but notice you are all armed." He paused for a
moment, appearing to consider their request. Could they really believe a man of
his intelligence would go with them and save the collective that had destroyed
his life's work? Yes, those agents could believe it, because they did not
understand how free men lived. At last, he answered. "If you gentlemen
will be so kind as to let me gather my books, I will meet you at your
car."

The relieved agents went to their car while Smith went
back into his house. Smith called his dog, grabbed a pack he kept in the closet
for just such an emergency, and slipped through a trap door in the bedroom.
When he was safely on his way through his carefully engineered tunnel to the
forest, he pulled a detonator from the pack. All the agents saw was Smith's
fine house, blown to bits. They assumed Smith had committed suicide, just as
Smith had known they would.

The collective held a meeting that night to decide
what to do. Winter was coming, and nobody had enough ambition to fix the
heating system or preserve the food. The rusting factories were filled with
drones, waiting for the collective to tell them what to do. They were waiting
for the collective to save them. They did not realize that they were the
collective and they would not save themselves. They had forgotten how. Smith
however, continued to be the last free man.